


How Thomas Nightingale finally fell asleep

by howsharry



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, with a surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 10:06:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howsharry/pseuds/howsharry
Summary: Peter finds something small of extreme importance on Thomas's head. And it's not a spider, or else he would have shot it with a fireball already.





	How Thomas Nightingale finally fell asleep

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not as fluent as I'd like to be in the english language and I'm certainly not British. Still, maybe you'll enjoy it!
> 
> might be continued at some point.

I honestly have no idea how this happened. 

'This' being me, in the library with a book open in my lap. Nothing special so far, you might believe, but wait: I'm not giving it any attention at all. It's Latin after all, well, so nothing out of order really. The cause in this particular case of lacking attention to the Newtonian matters is an entirely different this time, has been an entirely different for some time now. It only occured to me now, I think, or maybe I'm just having one of those out-of-body experiences where I can't recognize myself in the mirror.

Doesn't matter really. Right next to the book and perched between my legs and the armrest of my chair are a pair of feet. Nightingale's feet. I know this, because I've massaged them for the last thirty minutes and because obviously they are still attached to my superior officer who's sleeping in the chair opposite to me. 

Nightingale is fucking cute when he's asleep. Adorkable. He would pull a disgusted brow at the use of that word but right know he doesn't give a flying fuck. He's slumped down in his chair, suit jacket carefully put aside and breathing deep and slowly. It fascinates me and that really shows how gone I am for the man. 

We had a long day, apparently. 'We' meaning Nightingale, he was called by Walid in the early hours of morning and left me in bed with a few whispered words of excuse. He reappeared two hours ago in the atrium, had late dinner with me and then reclined to the library with his wind-down-whiskey, where I promptly followed him for some reasearch I had procrastinated earlier. 

He didn't talk much, just slumped down further and further until I wordlessly lifted his legs onto my lap and, well, he fell asleep to minutes later. 

I rarely get a moment to watch Nightingale alone in a fully lit room without him noticing. It's kind of intimate. But sadly, it has to end soon – his back and neck will be aching like hell tomorrow if I don't wake him and put him to sleep in one of our bedroom's. 

I quite like taking care of him, I gather as I cautiously raise from the chair and put the book away. I catch the smell of his cologne when I lean over his limp figure and put a hand on his shoulder. One last look, the bridge of his noose, his eye lashes, his hair. 

I need more than five seconds to process what I see, which is a good time for a lighthouse keeper but definitely not for a copper. At least I don't start yelling like a civilian.

„Thomas“, I say alarmingly loud, though, and grip his shoulder tightly. He yelps awake, see's me and relaxes back with the disturbed look of the awakened on his face.

„Thomas“, I say again, still staring at the side of his head.

„Dear Lord, Peter, what is it?“ His hand moves up to touch his temple but I catch it mid-air and hold it.

„Fuck.“

„Eloquent as ever“, Thomas murmurs dryly. There's a little worry in his voice but I guessed it was directed onto myself and not on his own well-being. To be honest, if it was a large spider or something equally disgusting I would have shot a fireball at it. And shielded Nightingale of course. Priorities, Peter, priorities.

I swallowed and moved my eyes away from the single short grey hair that was so easily migrated into the rest of his head.

„You've got a grey hair“, I murmured and looked at Nightingale.

„Very funny, Peter“, he sighed, „again you fail to make out the difference between reality and one of your romantic-comedy movies.“

He was grumpy, so I gave him the hard tour and plucked it out. He yelped again and then went silent when I held it in front of his eyes. 

„Oh fuck“, he swore.

„We have to call Walid“, I said. 

 

Nightingale was silent while Walid put him through all sorts of test and finally shoved him into the MRT. We had a moment alone, me and the doctor, while the Magnet rotated around Nightingale's head.

I looked at the Petri dish in front of us, where the single hair was embedded into a clear solution. „He's aging again“, I said dumbly, but someone had to say it out loud. 

Walid grunted. „That's very strange, indeed.“

„Do you have any idea, why?“

Walid turned away from the Computer and to me. „Except that it's caused by magic? No.“

 

Nightingale must have been very tired after we left the UHC because he accepted my offer to drive. He still didn't speak, though, just looked out the window, his eyes following the passing cars and pedestrians. 

Back at the Folly he took my hand and wordlessly took me with him into his bedroom, where he undressed swiftly. I followed his example. 

„Are you going to talk again ever?“ I asked while he settled against the headbord. He looked at me with shadowed eyes but even his exhaustion couldn't quite betray the fondness in them. 

„Yes“, he said.

„That's not talking, that's answering a yes or no question“, I sighed and followed him into bed. I crawled under the sheets and settled over his stomach from where I could see his face. His hand found my arm and gently stroked over them.

„Thomas“, I said quietly, „whatever this is, it's good, isn't it?“

His lips thinned and jaw clenched and for a second I thought I angered him by saying that and a grey hair meant in fact the opposite of good but then I realized it was suppressed emotions that made Nightingale grimace. He took a deep, shallow breath and tears formed in his eyes, threatening to flow over the edge. 

By the time I got hold of his hand he was shivering, his head bowed so tears where dropping onto his chest. I let him cry, because there's really nothing you can say. Thomas Nightingale was aging again. We didn't know why, not yet at least. But it definitely was a good thing. I could only imagine a life as long as his was a heavy burden, especially when you're the only immortal around. 

And then it really hit me. You make up your mind about a relationship's future, no matter how hard you try not to and enjoy the moment or whatever. For me it was a subconscious certainty, that I was going to grow old – the physical part bothered me the most. I could never catch up with Thomas's mental age, but I would certainly overtake him some day in looks. 

Or maybe not. We would grow old together. To not go into too much detail but I certainly had a good cry with that thought in mind, but I was smiling all along. Just as Thomas's breathing seemed to calm I had recuperated enough to turn is both around and pull him into my arms. His head on my chest, his arms around my waist.

„I've never seen a person so happy at their death sentence“, I said.

„It's not immediate“, Nightingale murmured, „and I've been running from death for longer than I deserve.“

His words pained me, I layered it with humour.

„Your the third Peverell brother.“

„I have no idea what you're talking about“, Nightingale said and smacked a wet kiss on my breastbone to distract me. 

I let it go.

Nightingale is old-fashioned. A romantic in his own weird way of stipp-upper lip and never showing so much as an ankle (I adore his ankles, don't get me wrong), and frankly I'm not. I'm not good with words, he is. And maybe I should get used to it, when he tells me stuff like this:

„Thank you, Peter“, he whispered against my chest.

„For what?“, I asked, carding fingers through his hair. It would be grey in a few years. But so would mine. 

„For making my life worth the wait, I guess“, he said. You can't get a bigger compliment from a 112-year-old war veteran and historically discrimated gay with PTSD, I thought. You couldn't get a better compliment than someone making their life's worth relative to meeting you. I definitely would never get to top that, thank you Thomas.

I shut my mouth afterwards so I wouldn't cry again and we could finally sleep. Which we did, but not before I whispered something short in his ear that made him smile.


End file.
